Charlie
by Beechwood0708
Summary: Why was Vince writing about Charlie anyway? What was he doing hiding in a zoo having stories written about him? Could be this.


I've always thought Charlie was sinister. I think it's the way he's around for the whole series and never mentioned. I was wondering what he was doing there and why. So I came up with this. Hopez youz likez.

Disclaimer: Julian Barratt and Noel Fielding do many things. Like they own everything in this fic. **Everything**.

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Charlie

"I like him."

"You can't have him."

Why was the boy always so defensive? Didn't he love him any more? He had been so good; taken him in when no one else would, kept him in plentiful supply of monkey nuts and spanners and old boots, even the odd trumpet or two. He had even managed to melt him down again and helped him to set back into his original shape. Helped him get all the dead Inuits out. Helped him bury them and give them a proper funeral.

He had been on the run and wracked with guilt, only just recently hounded out of Seattle, but this boy, sweet pretty trusting little Vince, had hidden him and kept him safe.

He had even been willing at first.

Charlie had given him something in return. A partnership. A partnership that could lead to fame, wealth, success. Everything he could want, provided he used it well.

Charlie needed to tell his story. He needed to let the truth out about Eric Phillips, the Hoover-bag and the Inuits. That was what the boy was for. He would write, and he would draw. He would write and draw the truth as Charlie told him, and Charlie would be forgiven, and Vince would be famous, just like he'd always wanted. They would both win.

But Charlie was starting to regret choosing little Vince. He wasn't a genius, but Charlie had never expected him to be. He wasn't a master. That couldn't be asked of him. But he was stupid. Not average. Stupid.

And he was not getting Charlie's work done.

He had tried to make up for it. He really had tried. Monkey nuts by the barrel and all the spanners he could find. He'd even given up a few pairs of new boots and handed over his offcuts for Charlie to turn into wigs.

But it wasn't enough. It was what made Charlie happy, but it wasn't what Charlie needed. He wasn't even completely happy. He hadn't made a wig for a trumpet for months, when Vince had found one in a skip on the way to the supermarket, where he was going to leave Charlie's story for people to find.

Charlie wanted a trumpet. He wanted one a lot.

Vince said he couldn't get Charlie a trumpet, but Charlie knew there was one right under his nose.

But the boy wouldn't give it to him.

"It's his trumpet. I can't just give you his trumpet."

"That's never stopped you before."

"That was different."

"How?"

He hadn't wanted to do it, but Charlie had had to make Vince a new deal. He knew Vince didn't love him any more, and he knew Vince didn't want him. So he'd had to make a new deal. He needed to make sure that Vince stayed, and didn't leave him on his own.

Howard, the man who owned the trumpet.

Vince liked Howard. When Charlie said Howard's name, Vince did what he was told.

Charlie liked Howard too. Howard was funny. When he was happy, he said funny things, and when he was angry he could be very silly.

Howard looked nice when he was asleep.

Sometimes Charlie crept into the hut at night to watch him sleep. Vince always knew, and he always woke up and sat with him. He always looked over apprehensively to make sure that Howard didn't wake up.

He used to talk to Charlie. He used to get excited and enthusiastic, and they'd talk about Alice Cooper or Kiss or whoever, and stay up all night. Now he just sat there, looking at Howard, like he thought Charlie was just going to leap on him and take him away there and then.

Occasionally Charlie might speak.

"I do like him."

"But you can't have him."

"And why not."

And Vince looked up into Charlie's eyes, and Charlie saw that Vince's eyes were wide with fear and his mouth was open with panic, and his skin was pale and creamy and white.

And Charlie understood.


End file.
